


30 Days of Reasons for Tomorrow

by Nherizu



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Comfort/Angst, HP: EWE, M/M, Original Character(s), Pining, Post-War, Romance, unusual careers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 18:40:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nherizu/pseuds/Nherizu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry’s life after the war is far from what people expect, but no one really knows about it except Malfoy. Now Harry has to continue pushing Malfoy away to keep his life on track—or maybe he just needs to learn to accept the fact that there are still things worth fighting for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	30 Days of Reasons for Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kedavranox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedavranox/gifts).



> **Author's Notes:** Happy Holidays, kedavranox! I tried to include most of your requests, but I couldn’t manage Wandmaker!Harry. In exchange, I present you this Metalcharmer!Harry, and Draco’s rather unusual job. I really hope you like the story!
> 
> Thank you so much to my brilliant beta and first readers, as well as my lovely britpicker and cheerleaders because without them I wouldn’t have done this. Thank you to the mods for holding this fest and for being so helpful—I really appreciate your suggestions!

Harry was getting restless. Something was crawling under his skin, making him itch all over, and he tried hard not to move. He could feel his hands starting to shake, so he curled his fingers into fists.

“Could you please do something about it, Mr Potter?” Mrs Malfoy asked, dabbing her forehead with an embroidered handkerchief. It had been almost two hours since she dragged him outside to examine the gate of Malfoy Manor, and she couldn’t stop fussing, pushing, or generally forcing him to bring the dead metal’s magic back to life. Harry just wished she could do this another time, not now when he could hardly concentrate on his job.

“I think this might have something to do with the wards,” said Harry. He wiped his forehead, too, knowing there must have been sweat there despite the cloudy November weather. “I’m not sure it’ll work even if I charm it again.”

“But you will be able to repair the gates, will you not, Mr Potter? Everyone talks about your expertise, I’m sure there must be some truth to it,” said Mrs Malfoy softly, dabbing her cheek this time. Harry gritted his teeth at her obvious insincerity.

“Perhaps you should hire an expert on wards.”

“Oh, I agree, I already told Draco to locate the best one in England.”

“Then please contact me again when he’s succeeded,” said Harry. The shaking in his hands grew stronger, so he surreptitiously slid them into his cloak pockets. He was beginning to feel faint, his heart hammered loudly in his ears.

Mrs Malfoy nodded, looking sad. “Very well. I will have Draco contact you.”

“Sorry I can’t be of much help right now,” said Harry, not at all meaning it. He closed his eyes for a moment to regain his balance, before adding, “I’ll see if I can find anything at home.”

Mrs Malfoy gave a soft hum, and Harry found her eyes on him disconcerting. “I’d really appreciate that.” She folded her handkerchief, sliding it into her cloak pocket gracefully. “Shall we wait for Draco’s return inside?” she asked.

Harry quickly shook his head. “No, if that’s all, I need—must go home now. I have an appointment.”

“But the sun is still high and I’m sure Draco will be—”

“—pleased if he doesn’t have to see me,” finished Harry. Maybe his tone was a bit too harsh, judging from the way Mrs Malfoy’s eyebrows arched, but he couldn’t be arsed right now. The sun wasn’t even there, for fuck’s sake. “Sorry, but I really need to go,” he added. Not wanting to be held off any longer, he gave a curt nod and spun on his heels, hoping to Apparate once he was out of the wards’ reach. He didn’t expect to bump into Malfoy who had just materialised from Apparition, though.

“Ow, Potter,” Malfoy said, his hands gripped Harry’s shoulders. He looked like he was about to say something snappy, but thinking better of it. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Harry growled, extracting himself from Malfoy. Oddly, Malfoy was merely observing Harry with that look again—the look Harry had grown accustomed to this last year, ever since . . .

Shaking himself, Harry took a step back and clenched his fists tighter inside his pockets. He felt the length of his wand, pressing against the inside of his right arm, and concentrated on it, rather than staring at Malfoy standing in his all-black winter uniform. Harry resented the perfect fall of the material around Malfoy’s body, and the way Malfoy’s fringe tousled slightly. No doubt he had just come back from another exhausting case. Abruptly, Harry closed his eyes and willed his magic to Apparate him out of the Malfoy grounds.

He emerged in his flat, stumbling slightly. Rushing into his bedroom, he discarded his work cloak, robes and the rest of his clothes in haste. He chose a loose T-shirt and a pair of jeans from his messy wardrobe, carelessly pulling them on. He snatched his jacket and considered leaving his wand, but he didn’t think he would be able to stand walking the distance with all the tremors in his limbs. Giving up, he took his wand and Apparated out of the flat.

The narrow alley was dark as always, even though the night hadn’t come yet. It might be because all of the buildings in its surroundings shaded the sun, and the English weather itself didn’t help much when it came to sunlight, obviously. Harry walked down the alley, his hand tracing the bricks on the wall. It was a Muggle area, and who would suspect that at the back of all the mighty office buildings, there was a small path that led to an empty yard? It wasn’t that big, but enough to hold about forty to fifty people gathering there. Bottles of spirits cluttered in a corner, crates and empty boxes occupied the other. The walls around belonged to the office buildings, and they displayed interesting graffiti in bright colours. Drawings of naked women, and several male body parts as well as dirty words adorned the walls. Harry hooked his thumbs into his jacket pockets and smiled.

“Harry!” A man, Andrew, raised his hand. He flicked his brown fringe off his forehead and grinned crookedly. Next to him, another man with spiked, blond hair twisted his lithe body to look at Harry from under lowered eyelashes.

“Hullo, gorgeous,” the blond man, Myer, purred.

“No one else here?” Harry asked, not even bothering to hide the way he ogled at them. He wrapped an arm around Andrew’s shoulders, causing his fringe to settle back over his deep black eyes. Harry liked those eyes, especially in the dim light. They looked predatory and that thought alone could send a satisfying jolt down his groin.

“Sadly—or fortunately, no,” replied Andrew, cupping Harry’s cheeks and pulling him into a kiss. The kiss soon escalated into something more fervent, wilder. It was all about hands sweeping all over skin under jackets and T-shirts, tongues and saliva and the delicious friction as hips sliding against hips. Harry could sense the shaking in his hands subsiding, the itching replaced with something incredible surging through his veins.

“Mm, Harry,” Myer said in a low voice. He watched Harry from where he perched on one of the crates, caressing his own neck. Harry lolled his head to the side, letting Andrew lick and suck at the length of his jaw, and enjoying the view of Myer seductively stroking himself. Harry moaned as Andrew bit at his earlobe.

“Do you want to go to my place?” asked Andrew before kissing Harry’s lips again. Harry didn’t answer for what seemed like forever, until Andrew pulled back and smiled.

“Yeah, yeah. Anything,” Harry whispered, breathless.

“Do you want Myer to watch?” Andrew’s eyes glinted with something sly, and Harry shivered.

“Thanks, mate, but I'll pass,” said Myer from behind Harry, just before he felt strong hands kneading his arse cheeks. “Unfortunate, really, but I’ll be here Saturday night. You’ll come, won’t you, Harry?”

“Mm-hmm,” answered Harry, distracted by the feel of fingers trailing so near to the crease of his arse.

“Right. Come on, Harry,” murmured Andrew against the skin of Harry’s neck. “We’ll have to do something with that arse of yours.”

“God, yes,” hissed Harry, as Myer slapped his arse. His nerves tingled with anticipation, and he nearly Apparated them to Andrew’s flat. It wouldn’t do to scare these Muggles away, he reminded himself. He needed to hang on to the last straw of his patience and hoped the short journey to Andrew’s flat would be worth it. Judging from past experiences, he thought it would be.

Andrew chuckled. He kissed Harry hungrily one more time before tugging at his hand. “I’m going to make you scream,” he said, pulling Harry faster towards the narrow way out, Myer’s laughter echoing behind them. Harry struggled to control himself and eagerly followed Andrew. A good shag, that was all he needed. And usually it worked.

 

**. .  
. . **

Harry knew he couldn’t avoid Draco Malfoy forever, but when Malfoy opened the door to his workshop, Harry still felt the overwhelming urge to groan. Malfoy was looking immaculate, a sign that there wasn’t any exhausting case involving Muggles today. Harry had to stop himself from asking why he could read Malfoy by merely looking at his uniform and hair, and he forced his eyes back down to the Snitch in his hands.

“I’m closed, Malfoy. Can’t you read the sign?”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t come in, Potter. You didn’t lock the door.” Malfoy’s lazy voice grated on Harry’s nerves. “Mother told me to give you a message.”

“And an owl wouldn’t do?” Harry made a show of rolling his eyes as he put down the Snitch. Malfoy ignored him and picked up the winged object from the worktable.

“Is this supposed to be the rumoured new one from Oliver Quidditch?”

“Er. Yes?”

“So you’re the one who charms them.”

“Will charm them,” corrected Harry. “I’m still designing the charm.”

Malfoy hummed, bringing the Snitch closer to his eyes, letting the light from the Muggle lamp on the ceiling reflect on its golden surface. “It’s much lighter. Will it fly as fast as has been rumoured?”

“I’m trying.” Harry shrugged. “But you’re not here to talk about that.”

Putting the Snitch back down on the table, Malfoy gave a shrug of his own. “No, I’m not. But you’ll appreciate my efforts to put your mind at ease in a moment.”

“What do you mean?”

“The wards expert, Potter. The best one in Britain is out of the country, therefore I've had to settle on the second choice.”

“The second—”

“Zacharias Smith.”

Harry gaped. “Smith?”

“The one and only. Hufflepuff and a git to the bone.”

“You’re one to talk about being a git,” Harry snapped. “Whatever. I’m a professional. I can work with him if I have to—I can even work with you, so that’s saying something.”

“Indeed, Potter, I’m sure working with Smith and I will satisfy your noble desire to straighten our twisted moralities.”

“Shut up, Malfoy.”

Malfoy did just that, shrugging a shoulder and proceeding to inspect all the trinkets in the glass display. He remained silent for long minutes, while Harry resumed work on the Snitch, almost forgetting Malfoy’s presence in his workshop. When Malfoy finally spoke again, he tapped the glass softly two times. “Why did you choose to become a Metal Charmer, Potter?”

Harry swivelled on his chair so he could face Malfoy. “Because not many people want to do it.”

Malfoy laughed at that. “Bloody Potter always wants to be the centre of attention.”

“And why did you choose to be an Obliviator, Malfoy?” Harry asked through gritted teeth.

“There are two reasons,” said Malfoy, lifting his forefinger. “One, I hadn’t the privilege to choose like you.” He raised his middle finger when Harry rolled his eyes. “And two, not many people _can_ become an Obliviator.”

“Really,” said Harry flatly.

“I didn’t intend to brag, Potter. It’s just the way it is,” said Malfoy simply, flipping the two fingers at Harry.

“I’m sure your mum would be very proud of your manners as a messenger.”

“She doesn’t need to know.” Malfoy waved dismissively. “And actually, I’m not here only as a messenger.”

Harry crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back on his chair. “Oh?”

“Saturday night,” said Malfoy, his tone light and casual, yet he looked as if he was searching for something in Harry’s face. “I’m wondering if you’ve got any plans.”

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

“You’re joking. Although I won’t object if that means you’ll stay out of trouble.”

Harry took a deep breath, his hands trembling slightly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Potter, we both _know_ what I mean.”

“Then all the more reasons for you to shut up and let me be,” snapped Harry.

Malfoy let out a long, suffering sigh. “It’s not that simple. You’re bound to break the Statute of Secrecy sooner or later. I’ve been trying to cover up for you, but it’s getting difficult. You do realise that every use of magic in Muggle areas is monitored closely and that my department is in charge of taking care of every unfortunate outcome?”

“There won’t be any unfortunate outcomes. I don’t use magic in Muggle areas.”

“You will,” said Malfoy. “Believe me, I know how high the likelihood is for wizards and witches to break the secrecy if they are constantly surrounded by Muggles.” When Harry opened his mouth to protest, he added, “I’m not talking about Muggles whose relatives are of Wizarding population.”

Harry scowled. “I can take care of myself. You and your department can go fuck yourselves.”

“Potter.” Malfoy's voice turned grim. “You’re not to use Memory Charms without supervision. I don’t care if your Saviour status would save your arse in front of the Wizengamot.”

Sighing, Harry rubbed the back of his neck. Malfoy always acted as if his job was so important and special, but it was too much to take right now. “I won’t do anything. Happy?”

Malfoy looked unconvinced, but eventually he freed Harry from his scrutiny. “You know I’ll come even if you don’t want me to.”

“You have too much free time.”

“And you don’t?” Malfoy raised an eyebrow.

“Whatever,” said Harry, swivelling back to face his worktable. “You can tell your mum I’ll be at the Manor on Monday.”

There was a sighing sound, before Harry heard Malfoy walk away. Even when the door was closed one more time, Harry didn’t hear Malfoy’s answer, nor did he expect anything from Malfoy at this point.

Glaring at the Snitch in his hand, Harry knew he wouldn’t be able to stop Malfoy from coming tomorrow. Maybe it was time to search for another place, where another similar group of people gathered. But Malfoy was keeping a close track on Harry’s magic—the bastard was taking advantage of his job. So it wouldn’t make any difference even if Harry picked a new location. He just had to learn to ignore Malfoy. But the thing was . . . why was Malfoy being so stubborn? Didn’t he know that he was driving Harry crazy?

Resisting a groan, Harry glared harder at the Snitch and resolved to continue working later when his brain could stop thinking about Malfoy.

 

**. .  
. .**

It would rain soon—the atmosphere outside was so gloomy that Harry thought it might already be midnight, even though it was barely eight in the evening. Checking himself in the mirror, Harry buckled his belt with effort. His hands were shaking again, although this time it wasn’t that bad. Still, he could hardly wait until it was late enough for the Muggles to gather. He paced around, watching the clock ticking and finally giving up to his impatience when the clock struck nine times.

Apparating to the narrow alley, he breathed in relief when he heard the distinct conversation from the back yard. It looked like the weather hadn't stopped people from coming. Walking down the path, Harry found himself staring at the crowd of about forty people—mostly blokes who had drunk themselves silly and were fooling around in their equally silly outfits, hoping to look intimidating. Piercings, tattoos, spiked hair . . . everything that Harry saw in Muggle magazines about examples of ‘Bad Boys’. The light from the electric lamps set in the four corners was bright enough for him to make out the people’s faces. Squeezing himself through the small crowd, Harry finally caught sight of Myer.

“Harry, are you in tonight?” asked Myer with a wink. Harry grinned.

“Sure. Who’s the opponent?”

“If you can defeat that lad—” Andrew said, appearing behind Harry and pointing towards a brown-haired bloke not so far from them “—and he should be easy for you—the money is enough for a week of partying.”

“You know I don’t need the money.” Harry tilted his head to the side when the bloke met his eyes and scowled.

“Which is why we love you,” said Andrew lightly. He flipped two fingers at the bloke and dragged Harry to a corner. Myer followed them with a smile that spoke of innocence, if one didn’t really know him.

“It’s starting,” whispered Myer, gesturing with his chin. A tall, lanky man, whose hair was shaved clean, climbed on top of an empty crate that had been placed in the centre of the yard. The people around cheered deafeningly, until the bald man put his hand in the air. The cheers ceased just long enough for him to announce the bets and the rules, as well as the fighters and their opponents.

Harry tuned him out, as he had listened to the same thing over and over again for nearly a year, and his eyes drifted to a small area, oddly free of people. It was near the exit, and Harry knew, as always, that it was the effect of a Muggle Repelling Charm. If he squinted and concentrated just enough, he would be able to make out the person hiding under a Disillusionment Charm. It was always easy to spot Draco Malfoy despite the number of people gathering there, and Harry had made it a habit to watch Malfoy defiantly.

Malfoy was leaning against the wall, his arms crossing over his chest. He regarded Harry with such intensity that Harry wondered if and when he would blink. It was as if all the Muggles around him were simply non-existent, and Harry felt a shiver run down his spine. He closed his eyes, trying to focus his mind on Andrew’s voice in his ear, reminding him not to underestimate the brown-haired bloke’s right hook.

Harry didn’t open his eyes again until his name was called. He flexed his jaw, marching forward to where the crowd had formed a circle. His opponent was waiting for him with a glower. Harry had only vaguely heard the bald man’s shout to start, before he had to duck his head to avoid the fast blow coming at him. He had barely regained his balance, when a kick landed on his stomach. He groaned, but rolled away before another kick could crush his head. As he stood up, he pounded the bloke on the face, satisfied at the _crack_ that signalled a broken nose. He jabbed at the bloke’s stomach, not giving him any chance to tend to his bloody nose.

The crowd was cheering, and Harry was distinctly aware that he was grinning. He felt sweat trickling down his temples despite the cold weather. The thrill that surged through his blood, the adrenaline rush—they were just what he needed. The shaking in his limbs disappeared, replaced with something close to euphoria. He landed more blows, and received punches in return on his face and shoulders, but he was still grinning. At some point his body started moving on its own, led purely by instinct, for his mind started to picture only the blinding white. Like the one in King’s Cross _that_ time.

When the bright light faded, Harry saw his opponent groaning at his feet, hands covering his bloody face. The bald man took Harry’s hand and pronounced him the winner. Harry took in the frenzied looks on the spectators’ faces and the mad smirks on Myer and Andrew’s, sensing his own heart beating excitedly. He faltered, however, the moment he saw Malfoy shaking his head. Harry bit his tongue, resisting lashing out in front of all the Muggles. This was what he needed—this and the sex—and like hell would he let Malfoy ruin this.

“Here's some ice, mate.”

Harry blinked, trying to will his mind to function again. He accepted the dirty towel cocooning some ice cubes from Myer’s hands and dragged himself away from the makeshift arena. “Thanks. No more rounds for me, then?”

“Oh, fuck, Harry. No, the next bloke is a fucking Rambo. That’s Myer’s job,” said Andrew, flinging an arm over Harry’s shoulders.

“I don’t know whether I should feel touched or offended that you always give me the dangerous ones,” said Myer, although, clearly, he didn’t seem to mind having to fight the 'Rambo' at all.

Andrew laughed. “Make use of that karate kick of yours and . . .”

Harry turned another deaf ear when he noticed the crowd involuntarily splitting in two. Malfoy was walking towards him, his eyes narrowed and his lips pinched tight. He stopped an arm's length away from Harry, looking down as if he wanted nothing more than to beat the shit out of him. And if Malfoy had tried, Harry would have succumbed, for now that the adrenaline rush was subsiding, he could feel pain all over his body and his energy slipping away. But Malfoy merely stared at him with an expression that showed more contempt than Harry had ever seen during the war. And then he left—just like that.

“Harry?” Andrew shook his shoulder, but Harry could only hold his breathing. He watched until Malfoy’s back disappeared.

Honestly, what did Malfoy want from him? Why couldn’t Malfoy let him be happy? Why should he destroy the moment? And worse still, why did Harry let Malfoy affect him this much?

The rain started to pour down, but Harry couldn’t really care less about what would happen to the next fights.

 

**. .  
. .**

“This isn’t my job,” said Zacharias Smith, sounding pompous and obnoxious as he lifted his legs onto the table.

The private room Ron had prepared for Harry and him to spend Sunday night together in a pub near Muggle London, felt even smaller and more suffocating to Harry each time Smith opened his mouth. Smith had owled him in the middle of a drink and asked to talk with him regarding Malfoy Manor gate—thus ruining Harry’s night—but Harry hadn’t expected him to be this annoying. Still, there he was—with his blond hair, gelled stylishly, and his bespoke blue robes—trampling down Harry’s supposed good mood by the second.

“There’s nothing wrong with the wards, they have acknowledged Draco Malfoy’s inheritance right after his father’s unfortunate ending,” Smith continued.

Harry resisted glowering. Beside him he heard Ron let out a snort. “You haven’t checked. How could you know everything is fine?” Harry asked.

“I have, I went to the Manor this morning.”

“And that alone has convinced you that nothing’s wrong?” asked Harry in disbelief. “You haven't even tried.”

Smith sniffed. “You are one to talk, Potter. You don’t want to work for the lot of them either, I’m sure.”

“Oh? What gave me away?”

“The fact that you've come up with so many excuses and refused to charm their gate, of course.”

Harry stood up, his chair screeching against the tiles. Empty plates and glasses—mostly piled up in front of Ron—rattled on the table. “You know what,” he said tightly, “You’re right, I don’t need your help. I don’t need anyone who’s pitiful enough to let petty reasons prevent them from working professionally. I can’t believe you’re the second best wards expert in the country.”

Smith seemed to be offended at that. “Second best? Who—”

“You’re not even worthy of second place. You just have to admit that you can’t solve the problem.”

Curling his lip, Smith pulled down his legs from the top of the table and gathered his things. “In your dreams, Potter,” he said spitefully. “Fine, I’ll look into it some more.”

“Have a change of heart, did you?”

“Can’t have the bloody Saviour doubting my skills,” retorted Smith. “Bad for business. I’ll let you know as soon as possible.” He stood up, shoving his parchment into his satchel and stomping away without a second glance at Harry. When the door was slammed closed, Harry shared a suffering glance with Ron.

“Er, mate, what was _that_?”

Harry huffed. “I can’t believe he still hasn't changed at all.”

“I can’t believe you stood up for Malfoy,” Ron said, grinning. “Almost made me want to give you the third degree on where the bleeding hell was the real Harry Potter.”

Harry grimaced. He straightened up his chair before throwing himself on the seat, all the while glaring at the speck of dirt from Smith’s shoes on the table. “ _Scourgify_ ,” he said, mentally congratulating himself for not casting _Incendio_ or _Confringo_ instead.

“So, everything good?” asked Ron.

“Yeah, got a new job from Oliver Quidditch, Hannah Abbot asked for a Sneakoscope, and Malfoy Manor—but you knew that already.”

“I meant aside from work,” said Ron nonchalantly, but it was clear he wasn’t really nonchalant about it.

“Yeah, everything is fine.” Harry shrugged. He downed his Firewhiskey in three large gulps. “How is your work? Getting used to your partner?”

Ron made a face, and Harry was secretly grateful for Ron’s habit of forgetting everything at the mention of his partner in the Auror Department. “Zabini, that madman. He ignored the standard procedure because he thought it was only for commoners. I tell you! It was lucky that he came out alive, though I couldn't have cared less even if he hadn't, mind you.”

“I’m sure,” said Harry with a snort of laughter. “What did Hermione say? You both have visited St Mungo’s again, I wager.”

“She didn’t give him the painkiller potion. Served him right,” said Ron with a grin.

Harry grinned back, trying to follow the conversation and not rub the tender skin of his cheek instead. It was still sore, but at least people wouldn’t notice that just last night his cheek and eye had swollen massively. Sometimes he felt very fortunate that Hermione often brought her Healer books to his flat, giving him the opportunity to steal some very useful Healing Charms from them. And since Ron and Hermione had broken up, they had stopped cornering Harry together every time they suspected him of something. Still, they were his best friends, and knew Harry more intimately than other people—he couldn’t risk being caught. Or maybe, there was one more person who knew him even better.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Harry kept nodding to whatever Ron was saying. It didn’t matter at all that his ears had stopped listening.

 

  
**. .  
. . **

Monday was uneventful. He had promised Malfoy he would go over to his house to work with Smith, but after last night, Smith didn’t even show up. Mrs Malfoy told Harry that she had received an owl from Smith, saying he was still in the middle of his research. And Malfoy was caught up in his work—Harry was beyond glad that even when he bid Mrs Malfoy goodbye, Malfoy still hadn’t come home. It was probably not a good thing if there was a case that big involving Muggles and a group of Obliviators, but Harry couldn’t care less. Not right now.

Instead, he busied himself by working on the Sneakoscope Hannah had ordered from him, and by Tuesday night, he had wrapped the final product and stored it in his drawer. Grinning, he picked up the first Sneakoscope he had ever seen, his thirteenth birthday present from Ron, from the cabinet near the front door of his workshop. His own creation was not too different—just lighter and smaller for convenient use, but it was much more accurate. As Harry returned it to the cabinet, the Sneakoscope whistled for a moment before settling into silence again. Harry shook his head, amused. Even after all this time, it still gave false alarms.

Heading upstairs and into his room, Harry changed his robes into T-shirt, jacket and jeans. Usually it took about four days before his body would crave more sex or a fistfight, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t seek it out more often. He fiercely hoped Malfoy was still busy with whatever it was he was doing, as Harry was rather keener towards having a good shag than a fight right now.

Materialising in the familiar alley, Harry checked his clothes before walking down the path leading to the yard. Tonight there were about ten people hanging around the place, sitting cross-legged on the ground and drinking lager. Harry scanned the faces, satisfied when he found Myer talking with a girl with blue hair and quite a few piercings on her lips. Harry could see one corner of Myer’s lips was still slightly purple from the last fight.

“Where’s Andrew?” asked Harry. Myer, looking tipsy, sprung onto his feet and pulled Harry into a hug.

“Harry! Nice to see you again, it’s been . . . er.”

“Two days?”

“Two? Three? Whatever.” Myer winked. “Andrew’s got a date, I think. Lucky bastard.”

“And we aren’t?” asked Harry, feigning hurt. “I was thinking that maybe we could . . .”

“Good idea, Harry! Good idea!” Myer manoeuvred Harry rather too enthusiastically, pushing Harry’s back towards the exit. He gave a careless wave at the others, and Harry couldn’t help a grin.

All the way until they were out in the main street, Myer couldn’t seem to keep his hands to himself. He nibbled on Harry’s earlobe, fingers sliding under Harry’s jacket and T-shirt, sending cold sensations with every stroke. Harry was about to pull him into a kiss, gripping the collar of Myer’s coat, when he heard someone shouting. Harry’s ears and brain could process what terrible thing would happen quickly from making out the words that came out of the intruder’s mouth, but his hand was a tad bit slower. He gripped his wand, shouting, “ _Protego_!” but the green shield was only half formed when the red light blasted towards him—

No. Towards Myer.

“Fuck!” Harry grabbed Myer’s shoulders as Myer jerked in shock. He didn’t even scream—his eyes widened and his mouth opened in silent cry. Swearing, Harry shouted, “ _Impedimenta_!”

His attacker had raised his own _Protego_ —Harry swore some more. Two other red lights flared towards Harry, so he yanked Myer to hide behind a parked car. Harry could hear the curses hit the metal body of the car in loud _bangs_ , making the car rattle against the ground dangerously. Cracks from the window glass echoed, and Harry tightened his hold around Myer’s shoulders. When no more attacks were fired towards them, Harry shot a Blasting Curse, but he could only strike at the walls as the attacker Disapparated. Harry made a frustrated noise.

“Are you all right?” he asked, trying to see what damage the curse had done to Myer’s back.

“What was that?” Myer wheezed, wincing as Harry’s fingers traced around the burnt fabric on his back. Harry couldn’t see the skin—everything looked dark and burnt, but he could sniff the disgusting smell of scorched flesh. “It was worse than the Rambo’s kick . . .”

“Shush,” said Harry, beginning to panic now that he was sure the noise would cause Muggles to gather soon. He couldn’t bring Myer to St Mungo’s, hence it left his own flat. Still, how on earth could he heal something like this?

Someone placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder—Harry's first instinct was to throw another Blasting Curse, but he sagged in relief once he heard the whispered, “Potter.”

“Malfoy—”

Malfoy whispered again, this time swishing his wand over Myer’s head with a grave expression. Harry saw Myer opening and closing his mouth, before finally shifting his attention to Harry. “I—did he just emerge—”

With a final flick of Malfoy’s wand, Myer stopped talking—his eyelids drooped and his whole body relaxed in Harry’s arms. Malfoy watched the way Harry curled his arms tighter, and seemed to resist sneering. Instead, he shook his head and grabbed Harry’s shoulder again. “To your workshop. Set the wards so I can come through.”

Harry didn’t need to be told twice. Judging from the voices, Muggles were already in the street, and it was only a matter of time before they spotted Harry. Malfoy was used to this, Harry knew, so he closed his eyes and Apparated Myer to his shop. Stumbling in the entrance hall, he heaved Myer to the living room and laid him on his stomach on the sofa. He cast _Diffindo_ to cut Myer’s coat and shirt around the wound and had to restrain himself from gagging at the scalded flesh. Harry rushed to his bathroom and reached up to open the cabinet above the sink. He shuffled through numerous vials of potions, and swore when he couldn’t find anything useful.

Should he go to Hermione? But what would he say to her, and who the fuck was his attacker?

Mind reeling, Harry dashed back into the living room, bringing a wet cloth. He sat back on his heels beside Myer’s unconscious form, carefully wiping the burnt skin. He had no idea if this was what he was supposed to do to this kind of wound, and could only hope it wouldn’t make it worse. When he heard the _crack_ of an Apparition, Harry tried not to heave in relief.

“Potter?” Malfoy called, sliding to kneel beside Harry. Harry didn’t need to answer him, for Malfoy had started to inspect Myer’s wound and whispered, “This needs to be treated in St Mungo’s.”

Harry stared at him resignedly.

“Wait, let me see what I can do. I’ve seen this curse before,” Malfoy said, quickly throwing some colourful spells over Myer’s back. “Ah, this isn’t as bad as it looks. I’ve seen Madam Toppin treat burn wounds before.”

“Madam who?”

“Toppin, the Mediwitch in . . . the rehabilitation centre.”

Harry closed his mouth, afraid he would say something stupid regarding Malfoy’s time in there. While his father had been sentenced to Azkaban, where he died two years later, Malfoy was sent to a rehabilitation centre—because he was still underage, and because the Wizengamot deemed him mentally incapable. Harry wasn’t sure if that was really better than Azkaban, but Malfoy never commented on it even once.

He watched Malfoy cleaning the wound and treating it with a few spells, offering to Conjure a fresh bandage as Malfoy wiped his forehead with his sleeve. When Malfoy was done, Harry couldn’t help but feel awkward. He almost felt obligated to be angry with Malfoy for tracking him, but at the same time, the magical monitoring had enabled him to immediately come the moment Harry cast offensive spells.

“Who did this? You should report it to the Aurors, Potter,” said Malfoy eventually.

Harry took a deep breath and dragged the answer out a moment longer. “I don’t know. But you were right, I broke the Statute of Secrecy.”

Rolling his eyes, Malfoy stood up. “You don’t need to worry because no one witnessed your magic save for this bloke. You can just tell the Aurors you were attacked when you were alone.”

Harry looked up in surprise. Malfoy was willing to keep it silent?

“If you call Weasley or Blaise maybe they can still track the magical signature left on the site,” continued Malfoy, as if he hadn't noticed Harry was staring at him askance.

“I . . .” Harry cleared his throat to mask his broken voice. “I’ll just _Obliviate_ him and send him back to his flat then—”

The next moment, he could only see his wand flying out of his grasp, into Malfoy’s hand. The look on Malfoy’s face stopped the protest that had been on the tip of Harry’s tongue.

“Don’t even think about it, Potter,” said Malfoy tightly. “Memory Charms are not to be treated lightly, haven’t I told you so?”

Harry frowned. Of course he knew that—wasn’t Lockhart enough of a proof for Harry to never play around with Memory Charms? “Who said anything about treating them lightly, Malfoy? I’m capable of casting one without causing any damage, thank you very much,” he snapped.

“You’re not, you haven’t learnt enough. You need to know what could happen and how to prevent them from happening before you cast a Memory Charm,” retorted Malfoy. “You have no idea what I—” Malfoy paused for a while, and then sighed. “Minds are delicate things, Potter. I wasn’t mistakenly judged unstable. I needed the therapy at the rehabilitation centre, and I bore witness to the damage the war caused. “

Harry didn’t say anything for a while, and when he did, he didn’t realise it until after he heard his own voice. “You needed to be rehabilitated?”

Malfoy nodded, looking defeated. “It wasn’t exactly a good experience—having the Da—Voldemort under the same roof.”

“Is that,” Harry licked his lips, “is that why you chose to be an Obliviator? Because you understand the damage to the mind?”

“That, and because when I was there, once I was better, I helped out, too. The good word the Healers and Mediwitches put in for me must have convinced the Ministry that I could be a good Obliviator. I don’t think I could get another job,” said Malfoy with a wan smile.

Harry looked down at his fingers, resting on top of his thighs, unsure how to react upon those revelations.

“That’s why, Potter, you need to stop, too.”

Harry snapped his face up to find Malfoy’s expression had changed to something akin to determination. “You need help. Or you need someone, whatever. But you need to stop what you’re doing, because addiction is never a good thing.”

Harry felt his anger bubbling from the pit of his stomach. “What gives you the right to tell me that?” he asked, rising to his feet. “Just because you accidentally saw me walking to the alley, you think you can follow me around, dictate to me about my—”

“You know what you’re doing is wrong,” Malfoy said, his calm tone made Harry even angrier. “Isn’t that why you've kept it from your friends?”

“I don’t think my private life is anyone’s business, that’s why I've never told anyone.”

“You know that’s a lie,” said Malfoy. He cut their distance, standing straight and using his three inches advantage over Harry. “It’s time to stop, Potter.”

Harry tried not to back down from Malfoy’s stare. “And why should I? No one else cares as long as I appear to be fine. That’s what they want, and I can give them that.”

Shaking his head, Malfoy heaved a suffering sigh. He seemed to like doing that whenever he was with Harry. “Fine, Potter. Give me time, a week—no, a month. I’ll give you one reason every day, but you need to promise not to go to that alley in the meantime.”

Harry stepped back, scowling. “And why should I agree to that?”

“Because, contrary to your pitiful claim, there are people who truly care about you,” Malfoy said with a scowl of his own. When Harry’s eyebrows shot up, Malfoy shrugged a shoulder. “That was reason number one.”

“I haven’t said I agree—” Harry began, but Malfoy ignored him, kneeling to check on Myer instead. “I’m talking here.”

Malfoy pointed the tip of his wand to Myer’s forehead, and Harry had to shut his mouth—because Malfoy’s expression was so serious, and Malfoy’s story about his time in the rehabilitation centre made Harry think about his own life.

“ _Obliviate_ ,” said Malfoy.

“. . . did it work?” Harry asked, in spite of already knowing the answer.

“Yes, Potter, it worked. Now you need to send him home.”

Harry stared at Myer’s sleeping form, and nodded. “Okay. And thanks.”

Malfoy disregarded him, busying himself with putting Harry’s wand down on the floor and standing up instead. Before he Disapparated, Malfoy gazed sideways at Harry. “Tell me. Or tell Weasley, Granger, anyone. Tell someone what you feel.”

“Er,” was all the response Harry could manage.

“It’s easier said than done, I know, but it really helps,” Malfoy continued with a sad smile, then Disapparated. Harry couldn’t say anything to that, for his mind was suddenly filled with the image of Malfoy trying to talk about his darkest days in the rehabilitation centre, trying and trying and failing . . . until he finally conquered his own fear.

Could Harry do that? Who was the coward now, he wondered.

 

**. .  
. . **

At first, Harry didn’t want to stop. In fact, the more Malfoy told him to stop, the more he wanted to defy him. But whenever Harry looked at the dark green sofa where Myer had been treated, the conversation with Malfoy would come crashing back into his mind. How Malfoy had clearly changed—for the better—after his days in the rehabilitation centre. How he had overcome the humiliation of being labelled as mentally unstable, and how he sensed damage in others—in Harry. And then Harry would sit for hours on the sofa, head in hands.

Malfoy’s various reasons about why Harry should stop came every morning—sometimes Malfoy would come by Harry’s workshop before going to the Ministry, and sometimes Harry would get extremely brief notes that were sent with owls. None of the reasons were really special. Mostly they were just something silly and clichéd like ‘You really should stop because you won’t have enough brain cells if you insist on having your already empty brain kicked and punched so much’, or ‘Look at your surroundings, Potter. Really look at them’. But Harry was rather impressed at how serious Malfoy was about this.

After a week, however, Harry began to feel the familiar tremor in his limbs again. His whole body itched, as though there were millions of ants creeping under his skins. He could hardly concentrate on his work, and Smith was all too happy to let people know that Harry Potter wasn’t the great Metal Charmer he was rumoured to be. Malfoy knew about it as always, and that only made Harry hate him even more. But Harry still tried, resisting the overwhelming urge to have sex or any kind of fights, hazily wondering why the fuck he was trying this hard only for Malfoy.

Bloody gorgeous Malfoy with all his new beliefs.

Eventually, though, when another week had passed, Harry couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Malfoy,” said Harry when Malfoy had arrived for his morning routine in the workshop, his mouth already open as it was about to say another silly reason. Harry was having none of that, though. He hauled Malfoy’s collar and pressed his mouth on Malfoy’s. There was a startled sound from Malfoy, his whole body seemed to have gone rigid under Harry’s now wandering hands. Harry slid his tongue along the seam of Malfoy’s lips, and had to whimper in protest when Malfoy pushed him roughly.

“What the _fuck_ , Potter?”

“I’ve stopped,” said Harry, desperate. “I’ve stopped, so the least you could do is let me be with you.”

“That means you haven’t stopped.” Malfoy's face was contorted in disgust. “Resist it, don’t let it win.”

Harry made a frustrated noise. “Easy for you to say! I can’t do this, it’s stupid, I’ll just—”

“Potter,” said Malfoy levelly, his hands caught Harry’s trembling ones. When Harry only looked at him sharply in response, Malfoy guided him and sat him on the sofa. “What makes you really want it? Why are you shaking?”

“I don’t fucking know, okay?” Harry nearly shouted. His feet were cold, his palms sweaty. “I just need it. I need that—that feeling.”

“Feeling of what?” asked Malfoy, his voice several tones softer.

“Something like—like what you’d feel when you get really, really excited. That adrenaline rush, like the feeling you get when you just escaped death.”

Malfoy frowned, and uncurled Harry’s fisted fingers before the skin could break from Harry’s nails. “Escape death. Anything you can tell me about the war, then?”

“No,” Harry said, shaking his head. “There’s nothing I can tell you.”

“Potter, there’s nothing wrong with having fears.”

“No, I didn’t even tell Hermione and Ron.”

“But you just told me about escaping death,” said Malfoy again, his thumbs circling Harry’s open palms. “Tell me. It’ll make you feel better, I promise.”

Harry made a noise at the back of his throat, wanting nothing more than to have sex here and now, or maybe he could just provoke Malfoy to fight with him now. Wasn’t fighting the thing they both excelled at?

“Potter . . . Harry,” whispered Malfoy. “Tell me.”

Harry closed his eyes, biting the inside of his lip so hard he could taste copper. Instead of darkness, however, it was a blinding light that he could see under his eyelids. The same brightness as the one he had seen in King’s Cross. The same heaviness in his chest. “I . . . died. Once.”

Malfoy didn’t say anything, but his thumbs faltered for a moment before they continued stroking Harry’s hands.

“When your mother lied to Voldemort, I had just come back. And since then . . . I just don’t feel alive if I don’t get excited, or scared, or anything that could make me . . . feel. Make me feel alive.”

“That’s why you did this to yourself,” said Malfoy.

“My body is used to it, I can’t just stop—”

“No.” Malfoy shook his head. “It’s not your body, it’s psychological. You can’t resist it because you think and feel you can’t.”

“Malfoy, please.” Harry sighed, pleading with his eyes. “I promise I won’t go to the alley again.”

Malfoy stared at him for a long time, and then exhaled. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this,” he said, sounding bitter, “but Potter, listen to me.”

“Malfoy—”

“This is my reason for today. But you need to remember the reasons I gave you before.”

“Malfoy, this isn’t the time for your silly—”

“Remember when I told you there are people who care about you? Remember when I told you to really look at your surroundings? Well, if only you'd done just that, you’d notice me.”

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but snapped it closed again when his mind had caught up with what was being said.

“If only you had tried, you’d know that I care. That maybe, maybe,” Malfoy paused, finding Harry’s hands in his own attractive instead. “Maybe I like you more than you could ever imagine.”

Harry suppressed a whimper, because suddenly his stomach felt cold and dread started to consume him.

Malfoy liked him. Malfoy—

“That’s why you need to stop, you need to—Potter?” Malfoy frowned, undoubtedly noticing how Harry was watching him in horror.

“Malfoy, I can’t. I just. Oh God, I’m so sorry, but I . . .”

“Potter?”

“. . . I don’t do relationships.”

Malfoy seemed to recoil at that, yet his hands tightened their grips. When he could talk again, his voice was still calm, but Harry knew there was something more to it. “I never asked for a relationship. I've never even dreamt of it. I just want you to respect yourself.”

And God, was there anything more heartbreaking than that? Harry fancied Malfoy, that much he was brave enough to admit. Ever since that time Malfoy caught him in the alley, or ever since he saw Malfoy in his Obliviator uniform . . . or even long before that. But it was easier to convince himself that he hated Malfoy who was so nosy, so arrogant, and limit his feelings only for his masturbating sessions or fantasies whenever he got a good shag. It was an entirely different matter to know that Malfoy liked him back, that Malfoy had to say he had never even dreamt of having Harry. And the fact that Malfoy refused him—it only made everything clearer that Malfoy wanted more than just casual sex between them.

But Harry couldn’t give what Malfoy wanted.

“Potter . . .”

Harry shook himself, trying to regain his balance. He freed his hands from Malfoy’s and said more firmly, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Malfoy stared back at him for several long minutes. In the end he nodded slightly, giving Harry’s thigh a light squeeze and rising to his feet. “Believe me when I say I only want you to care about yourself.” Harry was about to answer to that, yet Malfoy had Disapparated without further comments.

Throwing his head back onto the back of the sofa, Harry rubbed his face. The tremor in his body had gone, but now he was afraid the cold fear that had settled in his stomach would never disappear.

 

**. .  
. . **

True to his words, Malfoy wasn’t giving up. Every day Harry would receive an owl, and sometimes Malfoy showed up only to say a few words. They never talked again about that day, and the atmosphere between them was tense. And if Malfoy had noticed Harry’s lack of persistence to having a shag or a fight, he didn’t tell Harry anything.

Things shouldn’t be like this, though. Harry had to end everything, had to make sure Malfoy would give up. The one-month limit was about to end in just a few days—it was the perfect chance. So Harry left to meet Ron in his Auror office with that in mind.

“Potter,” greeted Zabini from his clean desk, its dark glass surface looked so glossy and immaculate that Harry wondered if he ever used it for work. Beside him, Ron was sitting at his own desk. It was a relief to see stacks of books and scrolls, breadcrumbs and some empty cups on it.

“Zabini,” replied Harry, before sliding to sit across from Ron. “Hey, mate.”

“Yeah, finally. It’s about your attacker. You know the details from Robards’ letter, right? Well, the trial will be after Christmas—er, New Year. Apparently this bloke’s a fanatic fan of yours, mate.”

“A fanatic fan,” Harry echoed.

“A stalker,” Zabini supplied, “who wasn’t very pleased to see you get all chummy with other blokes.”

Harry froze. “Er, what?”

“Um, mate. He knew you were kind of, um, liberal when it comes to sex . . .” said Ron with a red face, squirming in his seat. “So he thought he should teach you a lesson, to drive you back to the path of righteousness—”

“—which translates to ‘having sex with him’,” continued Zabini.

Harry could feel his own face heat up. “Oh, fuck.”

“You did too much of that,” said Zabini. Ron elbowed him on the waist, but Zabini appeared to be used to it, manoeuvring himself so Ron lost his balance instead.

“I didn’t,” said Harry, wishing he could dig a hole and hide inside it forever. “I’ve stopped lately . . .”

“Mm, yeah. I'll bet it’s Malfoy’s doing, isn’t it?” Zabini chuckled, waving his hand carelessly as if he was a prince waving to his loyal subjects. “I know what he’s been doing, don’t underestimate an Auror’s observation skills.”

“What? What did Malfoy do?” Ron squeaked.

“Nothing, he did nothing,” Harry quickly told him.

“It’s not nothing. Tell your mate that he shouldn’t play with Malfoy’s heart, Ronald.” Zabini smirked, earning Harry a calculative look from Ron.

“I’m not playing with anyone’s heart!”

“You just don’t do relationships,” said Ron, nodding to himself. Harry threw a betrayed look at him. “No, Harry, that’s been your excuse since Ginny.”

“I don’t do relationships because I can’t, okay? It’s nothing to do with Ginny,” snapped Harry.

“Are you sure it has nothing to do with Ginny at all?” Ron asked with barely concealed suspicion. “Because you didn’t exactly have a clean break up.”

Harry winced despite himself. Ginny’s cries when she finally figured out that Harry would never confide in her, never really be completely open to her, reverberated in his head. But Harry couldn’t trust himself to reveal his true self to anyone. The Dursleys had made it clear that Harry was not wanted, and everyone else only saw him with rainbow-coloured glasses. Only Ron and Hermione really knew him—but it was only because they had gone through life and death situations together. Still, it was a long time ago. The peace had made it harder for him to be vulnerable even in front of them.

And now . . . now Harry was sick, touched in the head. He was psychologically damaged, as Malfoy put it. How could he be with someone else? He would only make them disappointed if they knew the truth, or worse, he would make them suffer.

“No, mate, I think you need to know that Ginny isn’t angry with you anymore,” said Ron, pulling Harry out of his musings. “Whatever it is you’re blaming yourself for, stop it. No one blames you.”

“Ron, you don’t understand—”

“This is rather amusing,” Zabini interrupted in a light-hearted tone. “If you’re afraid Malfoy will run away screaming from you like Ronald’s sister did, you obviously have problems with your memory. Did Malfoy accidentally _Obliviate_ you?”

“What the hell are you talking about,” growled Harry.

“Well, obviously if anyone knows best about your _worst_ side, it would be Malfoy. It wasn’t like the two of you were on friendly terms at Hogwarts. And let’s not forget about the war, shall we?” said Zabini with a raised eyebrow, successfully pushing Harry out of his balance.

Yes, Harry was damaged . . . but Malfoy had _known_ all of that.

“It pains me to think about you and, ugh, Malfoy,” said Ron with a wrinkled nose, “but yeah, Zabini is right.”

“I always am, Ronald.”

“Yeah, right, if only you use that brain for cases.”

“Why should I, when I have you to do all the work?”

Harry sprung onto his feet, his palms smacked the surface of Ron’s desk, making all the books and cups jangle dangerously.

“Merlin, are you possessed or something?” Zabini asked, holding his chest. Harry merely grinned, and for the first time in weeks, he felt the weight on his shoulders had been lifted.

“Maybe,” he said. “That’s the only explanation for why I’m going to find Malfoy.”

He ignored the pathetic whimper that came from Ron’s direction.

 

**. .  
. .**

Finding Malfoy was easier said than done, too. A rush order came from Kingsley—he had requested Harry’s service to charm a lot of Muggle toys so they could operate like Wizarding ones. They were to be sent to a number of orphanages on Christmas Eve. Always having a soft spot for orphan children, Harry couldn’t decline the request, and moved into the makeshift workshop Kingsley had prepared for Harry in the Ministry—which meant that, while Malfoy’s owls could reach him, he couldn’t meet Malfoy in person. At least not before he was done working on the orders—he had only four days until the due date, and it was mad indeed.

When the last toy had been charmed right on Christmas Eve, it was three hours before the clock struck twelve. Harry sent a note to Kingsley with the last energy he had, watching the bags of toys vanish one by one. House Elves, then. He wondered if Hermione knew the Ministry still employed House Elves even on Christmas Eve.

Collapsing on the cold tiles, Harry took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, wondering what he should do now that he finally finished his job. Ron and Hermione had asked him to go to the Burrow tomorrow, but surely he could have other plans . . .?

Sitting up so fast that his stomach hurt, Harry thought with great despair that he had forgotten the one-month due date with Malfoy. No wonder he hadn’t received more owls starting two days ago. But his job had kept him so busy he had forgotten even to eat. Groaning, Harry scrubbed at his face. Malfoy must have thought Harry had refused to have anything to do with him, that Harry still wanted to go back to the alley. There was no other way, he needed to make his move now. Perhaps Malfoy was now in the Manor. He hoped the Malfoys didn’t have the habit of celebrating Christmas abroad.

Sniffing his own clothes, Harry miserably cast a Cleaning Charm to himself. It was better than doing nothing, at least. Sighing, Harry stilled himself and Apparated to Wiltshire. But the Manor looked so dark, as though no one lived in there. Harry touched the gate, wondering what was really wrong with it that it wouldn’t open automatically again. A House Elf with ears longer than a pair of socks popped up on the other side the gate, bowing slightly at Harry.

“Mister Harry Potter, Sir, what can Stinky do for you?”

“Stinky?” Harry wondered if that was a sarcastic jab towards his own body odour. “Um, is Master Draco there?”

“Apologies, Mister Harry Potter, Sir, Master Draco is not in the Manor. Stinky is to be guarding the Manor while Master Draco and Mistress Narcissa are out.”

Harry restrained a whimper from slipping out of his mouth. Apparently the Malfoys did go abroad for Christmas. He nodded resignedly at Stinky. “Thank you, Stinky. Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas, Mister Harry Potter, Sir.” And then Stinky vanished with a loud _pop_.

Walking back to the Apparition point, Harry refused to give up. He would go home, take a nice shower and then find out where Malfoy had gone. He figured his owl, Eli, could find him as long as the distance wasn’t that far. Now Harry hoped the Malfoys didn’t go to another continent or something.

Sighing, Harry Disapparated to his workshop. He climbed the stairs, discarding his robes and the rest of his clothes on the way. The quick shower he had was rejuvenating, waking up his exhausted nerves. He brushed his teeth and shaved, donning a Chudley Cannons T-shirt and some old pyjama bottoms. Now he just needed a cup of tea and he would be fresh enough to compose an apology letter to Malfoy.

Harry strolled down to the kitchen, opening the window when he saw the first snow had just fallen. He couldn’t help but think of Malfoy—whether it was snowing, too, where Malfoy was, or was it sunny and warm because he wanted to have a summer Christmas. Harry took a cup, conjuring hot water and almost scalding his fingers as he saw a familiar blond head through the window.

“Oh, fuck. Malfoy?” he called out, because apparently Malfoy was busy brooding in Harry’s back garden, his hair and blue cloak adorned with snow flecks. “Malfoy, you—fuck, are you trying to get frostbite?”

Malfoy appeared to be startled, looking at Harry with wide eyes. He hesitated, not moving from his brooding spot. After Harry’s third call, he at last walked towards the window, his hands in his cloak pockets and his breath white in the dark night.

“Potter,” he said.

“Climb in, or Apparate, whichever,” Harry shouted. “How long have you been outside?”

“I used a Warming Charm,” said Malfoy with a roll of his eyes, but it was clear that he was still cold. “And it was only after the sunset . . .”

Harry rubbed his temples in frustration. After the sunset—which meant he was there for more than six hours, for it was already almost eleven. “Are you mad? Do you want to die?”

“I’m a wizard, Potter. With the best cloak one could ask for,” retorted Malfoy.

“That doesn’t matter,” said Harry in exasperation. “Whatever, just—come in, will you?”

Malfoy complied—in fact, he looked happy enough to do so, appearing behind Harry. Turning around to rest his hip against the sink, Harry gazed sideways at Malfoy, who was busy casting Warming and Drying Charms all over himself.

“I went to the Manor. Stinky said no one was inside. I thought you’d gone abroad.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “My mother went to Paris, but I chose to stay.”

“Why?”

“There’s no such thing as holidays in my line of work.”

“But you weren’t working out there in my back garden, were you?”

Malfoy scowled, a blush creeping up his neck and cheeks. “I only wanted to make sure you were fine.”

“I am, I haven’t gone to the alley at all, and I was only busy working.”

“I know that, I still track your magic . . . but . . .”

Harry extracted his hip from the sink, inching slowly towards the scowling Malfoy. “. . . but?”

“I failed, didn’t I? The time was up and I didn’t hear from you,” whispered Malfoy.

“I’m sorry,” said Harry. “I was too busy working. But in case you hadn’t noticed, I said I haven’t gone back to the alley. I don’t think it means failure.”

“But . . .”

“And I . . .” Harry paused, gathering his long lost courage from wherever it had been buried inside him all this time. “. . . I really do want to stop feeling like this. I mean, I’m sure my hands will tremble again once everything has settled down, but I want to . . .”

Malfoy took a sharp breath as Harry touched his neck lightly. “Potter?”

“I want to go through it with you, if you don’t mind.”

Malfoy frowned. “Potter, for your information, I don’t do casu—”

“I don’t mean it like that,” Harry quickly added, both of his hands cupping Malfoy’s neck more firmly. “I really, really don’t mean it to be casual. I want more than that—if you still want me.”

Malfoy made a noise at the back of his throat. There was a long, heavy silence before finally Harry felt a pair of arms circling his waist. Malfoy dipped his head, capturing Harry’s lips softly, causing Harry’s whole body to tingle in anticipation. But it was also warm, and gentle, so unlike the kisses he shared with Andrew or Myer. Maybe because it was Malfoy, who he had known for years. It felt like coming home.

Malfoy’s lips were soft and wet against Harry’s. Harry moaned, parting his lips and meeting Malfoy’s tongue with his own. Harry threaded his fingers through Malfoy’s hair, caressing his smooth cheekbones and neck, until he felt the need for more.

“Do you want to go to my bedroom?” asked Harry, breathless.

Malfoy seemed to collect himself. “If you’re sure . . .” he trailed off.

“Oh, shush, I’ve gone celibate for so long because of you. And I’ve bloody wanted you for longer than that. Far longer.”

Malfoy looked surprised, though Harry didn’t give him the chance to marvel at Harry’s words. He tugged at Malfoy’s arm and moved towards the stairs. However, once they were in the bedroom, the awkwardness returned. Harry wanted to cry in misery—he wasn’t a bloody virgin, and he knew Malfoy wasn’t either. Why couldn’t they just get on and shag like bunnies?

It was Malfoy who made the first move to undress. He let his cloak and robes fall to the floor, slowly revealing the skin of his stomach and chest while unbuttoning his shirt. The moment Malfoy’s upper body was entirely bare, Harry felt another weight haul off his shoulders. No scars, thank God.

“Are you going to stare at me all night?” asked Malfoy, with his trademark eyebrow. Harry couldn’t help but smile at that.

“Git,” he muttered while slipping off his Chudley Cannons T-shirt. He played with the band of his pyjama bottoms for a while, teasing Malfoy who was busy unbuckling his belt. With a grin, Harry slid the garment down to the floor and climbed on to the bed before putting his glasses on the bedside table. Malfoy had also discarded his trousers—he joined Harry, reaching for Harry’s hand. In a matter of seconds they were kissing again, and slowly but surely all the awkwardness evaporated, swapped with something fierce and warm.

Malfoy sucked on the spot just under Harry’s collarbone, his fingers lightly tracing Harry’s nipples. Moaning, Harry arched at the touch. His cock brushed against Malfoy’s thigh, shooting delicious jolts to Harry’s lower belly. “Fuck Malfoy, it’s been so long, I can’t—fuck, just get on with it.”

“Going to come soon?” Malfoy murmured, thumbing the slit on Harry’s cock. Harry buckled, his body searching for more friction.

“Just fuck me,” Harry managed between moans. Every place Malfoy touched was tingling, his cock ached with desire.

“Patience, Potter,” said Malfoy, even as he picked up his wand to cast something onto his hand. Thick liquid glistened on his fingers, before he smeared it over his cock. Harry wriggled his arse. “I said, patience,” repeated Malfoy, though he was smiling. “Are you okay if . . .”

“No fingers. Please. I can’t stand nails and knuckles,” said Harry. “Just . . . it should be okay.”

Malfoy nodded, slowly gripping Harry’s hips and positioning himself. Harry lifted his legs, resting them on Malfoy’s shoulders. As the blunt head of Malfoy’s cock sliding inside him, Harry hissed. Despite the cool lube, it burned inside him, for he hadn’t had a shag for a month. Malfoy waited for a moment, watching Harry’s expression. When the burning subsided, Harry nodded his confirmation. It only took Malfoy one thrust for him to be fully inside Harry. Harry closed his eyes and tried to shift his hips, searching for a better angle. A flare of pleasure hit him, causing him to clutch at the sheets.

“Oh, fuck, move. Move,” he urged desperately.

Malfoy did just that, slowly at first but gradually increasing his speed as Harry didn’t protest even once. How could he, when the sensation of having Malfoy’s cock nearly made him melt in pleasure?

Malfoy’s sweaty shoulders caused Harry’s legs to glide off them repeatedly, or maybe it was just because Malfoy thrust into him so hard Harry’s whole body jerked along. So Harry hooked his legs around Malfoy, digging his heels into the hard muscles of Malfoy’s buttocks, urging Malfoy to go deeper.

“More, more, fuck, Malfoy, feels so good, _so good_.” Harry was beyond incoherent right now, his hands searching for Malfoy’s neck. Malfoy dipped his head, biting the side of Harry’s neck and Harry cried out.

“Like that, did you?” Malfoy changed the angle of his thrusting, and Harry felt dizzy. Malfoy’s head sank back into the juncture between Harry’s shoulder and neck, alternately biting and licking the already oversensitive skin.

“Yes, yes, I like it. Oh, God, faster, Malfoy!”

“Harry,” Malfoy moaned. “Harry.”

Harry arched his back, one hand reaching for his cock. It was leaking and he needed to come now, but Malfoy swatted his hand away. Malfoy swallowed Harry’s protests, kissing him and sucking his tongue. His stomach brushed against Harry’s cock, urging Harry to press himself up further. A few more thrusts and Harry shuddered, coming with a cry.

“Fuck, so tight,” said Malfoy, freeing Harry’s lips and closing his eyes in bliss. He pounded into Harry frantically, chasing his own release. When he came, his mouth opened in silent cry, his cheeks flushed so beautifully. Harry stroked that cheek with his thumb, enjoying the sight of this bloody gorgeous man that was now _his_.

“That was amazing,” whispered Harry after a long silence.

Malfoy sagged on top of him and laughed. “Potter, that is a cliché.”

“So what? I’m only being honest.”

“Luckily for you, I think it’s a perfect description, too.”

It was Harry’s turn to laugh, patting Malfoy’s back. “You’re heavy.”

With a groan, Malfoy rolled back and slid off Harry to lie on his back. He eyed the clock above the bedroom door and turned to face Harry. “Happy Christmas.”

“Mm, Happy Christmas. Do you think this was the gift from Father Christmas because we’ve been good boys all year? Because it sure felt like a gift,” said Harry, smiling.

“How cheesy can you get, Potter? And no, it wasn’t a gift, because it didn’t happen that easily.”

Harry had to agree with that. But it only made it feel a million times better because they had to work to make it happen.

Harry put his arms behind his head and gazed at the ceiling. It was indeed weird, and kind of scary. He was still Harry Potter, who had run away from everything remotely close to relationships for ages. He had chosen to be in the company of Muggles, and had been so scared of not feeling alive. A long time ago, Harry had thought he hadn’t feared death. He was always so close to death, even though it wasn’t like he had wanted to die. But then everything had changed, and Harry had been so cowardly in living his life after his experiencing the real death. And now . . .

He glanced at Malfoy, taking in every angle and plane and muscle in his features. Malfoy, who was now dozing off contentedly, who had defeated his fears and chosen to help Harry—and maybe a thousand others with his knowledge. Harry found himself smiling at that thought.

“Enjoying what you’re seeing?” asked Malfoy with closed eyes.

“Mm, I’d never have thought you'd have such long eyelashes.”

“Is that a compliment? Because I’m rather offended that you hadn’t noticed until now,” said Malfoy, now staring at Harry with a playful smile on his lips. Harry grinned.

“Well, I just have to learn more and more about you, don’t I?”

“Mm, see that you do.”

Harry snuggled into the pillow and shifted nearer to Malfoy’s side, enjoying the rare but blissful silence between them. After a while, Malfoy nudged Harry’s arm.

“Potter.”

“. . . yeah?”

“I noticed you hate working with Smith very much. You don’t have to do that again.”

Harry shot his eyebrows up, leaning on his elbow at the sudden change of topic. “Why? I still think there’s something wrong with the wards—”

“There’s nothing wrong with the gate, nor is there with the wards.”

“. . . what?”

Malfoy smirked and poked Harry’s forehead, causing Harry to tip back a little. “I _am_ the head of the Manor. Haven’t you figured it out?”

Harry’s mouth opened in realisation. “. . . you mean all this time you've intentionally sabotaged the gate?”

“I have indeed,” said Malfoy, looking pleased.

“Oh, God, you bastard, why did you—did your mother know?” Harry was torn between wanting to smack Malfoy or kiss him silly for his manipulation.

“I suspect she knows. Not much escapes her eyes . . . and as for your other question, isn’t it clear enough that it was so I could have more reasons to be around you?”

“But—but you _tracked_ my magic already, and why would your mother cooperate with your stupid ploy?” Harry asked wearily. He knew he wouldn’t get a satisfying answer from Malfoy, though, for the git simply smirked wider.

“Never underestimate the Malfoys,” he said, and then added more softly, “It’s nice to have a plan work for once.”

Staring exasperatedly but also fondly at Malfoy, Harry sighed and pressed his lips against Malfoy’s. “Git, what am I supposed to do with you?”

“Let’s see . . . oh, I don’t know. Maybe more shagging before you have to save your energy for the Weasley's Christmas party tomorrow?”

Harry groaned at the idea of a Christmas gathering and what his friends would say about his relationship with Malfoy, just in case the matter got brought up. But it was really sweet of Malfoy to memorise Harry’s annual schedule. Not that he had ever had a different Christmas routine since Hogwarts, but still . . .

“Good idea. I’m always in for a good shag,” he said eventually, smiling into the kiss.

“Of course, you are.”

Harry laughed, before kissing Malfoy harder.

He was sure there would still be a lot of things they needed to sort out, and perhaps Harry’s condition would make it harder for them. But at least . . . now Harry was walking forward. If Malfoy happened to be beside him and guide him when Harry lost his sight, Harry wasn’t going to complain. After all, he needed Malfoy more than he had ever expected—and knew Malfoy felt the same way about him, too.

 

**. .  
Fin  
. .**

**Author's Note:**

> You can leave a comment here or [on Livejournal](http://hd-erised.livejournal.com/13139.html).


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